Becoming Anthea
by gutsandglitter
Summary: "Anthea" was just supposed to be a code name, a false persona for work. But Katharine Potts has been living under this assumed identity for so long it's taken over her entire life and existence.


_Hey guys!_

_So I completely fell in love with not!Anthea while writing my Safe at Harbor fic and decided she needed her own story. So, here goes nothing!_

~B

* * *

><p>Katharine Potts stared at the ceiling, tracing her fingers over the soft bed sheets.<p>

_Any moment now_, she thought to herself, mere seconds before the alarm on her phone went off.

She sighed, even though she had been expecting it. She rolled over and grabbed the Blackberry off the nightstand, silencing it. 3:30am.

She rolled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She ignored her reflection in the mirror as she stepped into the shower and began the process of becoming Anthea.

Exactly twenty-three minutes later she was locking her flat behind her and making her way to Mycroft Holmes's flat just down the hall.

It was the fifth anniversary of the day she had become Anthea. Well, she hadn't technically been called "Anthea" the first few months of her employment, but she most certainly hadn't been Katharine.

* * *

><p>It had been right after her graduation from Cambridge. Her Ma and Da had been there, as well as her sister Lydia and her Nan. They were going to get a celebratory dinner afterwards, so she kissed them goodbye and headed to her car, mentally planning her order. She had just begun to salivate over the idea of steak fries when a black towncar pulled up beside her. A tall black man in a charcoal suit stepped out.<p>

"Katharine Potts?'

"Who wants to know?" she asked, sounding much braver than she felt. She knew this was bad news, and the idea of her parents finding her mangled body still in her cap and gown crossed her mind.

The man smiled. "Please step into the car." It wasn't a question.

"Like hell I will."

"It's in your best interests to cooperate with me," he said dryly.

She eyed his strong build and knew there was no way she would be able to outrun him. Also, the towncar and the man's suit confused her, made her curious.

"Are my odds of staying alive and in one piece better if I cooperate than if I were to pull a runner?" she asked.

"Infinitely."

She sighed. 'Well I haven't got much of a choice then, do I?"

He opened the back door for her and she stepped in.

-0-0-0-

In the car she sent a quick text message to Lydia telling her she had met up with some friends and was going to be a bit late. No need to tell them she was in the middle of being kidnapped, they'd only worry. She tapped the letters out on her phone, a cheap little thing she barely used. She didn't see much point in things like text messaging and whatnot, and wasn't about to spend obscene amounts of time on it.

It was a short drive, but they had reached the edge of the city. They pulled into a dark warehouse; the headlights illuminated a slim figure leaning on an umbrella with his ankles crossed. _Prat_, she thought to herself. _I've been kidnapped by an utter and complete tosser._

As soon as the car came to a stop she stepped out and walked towards the man. His suit was immaculate, and he had a powerful look to him. Katharine was more than a little taken aback. She steeled herself once again as she got within speaking distance.

"What's this about then?" she tried to sound nonchalant, like imposing men in towncars spirited her away to undisclosed locations all the time, but her voice cracked and she sounded like a very small child.

The man smiled, which was even more unsettling.

"Katharine Potts, recent college graduate. Top of your class, double-majored in Political Sciences and International Relations. Fluent in English, French, Spanish, and German. Field hockey team captain, has spent past two summers working as an intern with the United Nations. Humble beginnings, but you were always a good student as well as a hard worker, and managed a full scholarship to Cambridge University. Am I correct?"

Her knees were shaking, but she found the courage to say "Good for you mate, you know how to use Google," in a bitter tone. Every instinct was telling her to bolt for the door, but it was if some imaginary force kept her rooted to the ground.

The man chuckled, "Feisty too. Yes, you'll do nicely."

Her eyebrows shot up. "I'll do nicely? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Ah, you must forgive me. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I have a business proposition for you." He extended a pale, slender hand.

"You can put that away," she snarked, looking pointedly at his outstretched hand. "I have a very good feeling I do not want to be involved in the type of business proposal that goes on in an empty warehouse on the outskirts of town, thank you."

The man's face remained cool as he retracted his hand. "I am in need of a personal assistant. My last one met an, ah- unfortunate end. I work behind the scenes in the British government, and your job would be to help me run things as smoothly as possible. This entails long workdays and for you to be on call at all hours of the night. You would be sworn to secrecy about the goings-on in your daily work schedule. The job involves a significant amount of travel, often on short notice. All travel expenses will be compensated. And you could expect a starting salary to be somewhere around thirty five thousand pounds per year."

Her jaw dropped at this last piece of information, but she quickly regained her composure.

"Do I have your attention?" he asked coolly.

She nodded.

-0-0-0-

The next eight months had been both nightmarish and exhilarating. She had been made to learn to speak fluent Russian and Mandarin, as well as master three different martial arts. She had been given a sleek new Blackberry which was now almost permanently affixed to her hand. She had moved out of her own flat and into one in Mycroft's building, just down the hall from the politician. It was much more posh than she would have liked, she felt as if everyone there knew she had been raised poor and judged her for it, but she soon grew thankful for what she jokingly called her "commute" to work, a five-second walk down the hall to Mycroft's flat.

The biggest problem she had with the move was the fact the building didn't allow pets, so she had been forced to give away her beloved tabby cat Anthea. Mycroft had assured her that she would never have time for a pet, and even though she knew this was true she still resented him for it. The day after the move Mycroft had asked Katharine what she wanted her work persona's name to be, in a fit of sentimentality she decided to name herself after her cat. She almost immediately regretted the decision, but she was stuck with it.

* * *

><p>She stumbled home blearily at ten that night. She was starving (dinner with the Prime Minister had been pate du fois grois, since Anthea didn't eat goose liver on principle she had politely declined) and utterly exhausted. She fumbled through her near-empty kitchen cabinets before finding a few stale pop-tarts and a bottle of fine merlot that had been a gift from a French dignitary.<p>

"Oh boy, if Nan could see me now," she muttered to herself, popping the cork and taking a deep swig straight from the bottle. She kicked off her high heels and made her way to the couch to revel in some lousy late-night tv before bed.


End file.
